We Don't Leave Anyone Behind
by KCS
Summary: "Don't let Sam get in the way, okay, because he'll try." Problem is, Castiel has very little chance against a man motivated by a force powerful enough that not even Lucifer had been able to harness it.


**Title**: _We Don't Leave Anyone Behind  
_**Characters**: Dean &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel  
**Genre**: H/C, Family  
**Word Count**: 3492  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Spoilers for 10.09, _The Things We Left Behind_, as it's a coda for that.

**Summary**: SPOILERY QUOTE BELOW

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_"Don't let Sam get in the way, okay, because he'll try."_ Problem is, Castiel has very little chance against a man motivated by a force powerful enough that not even Lucifer had been able to harness it.

**A/N**: I'm sure there will be dozens of mid-season finale Codas; just tossing in my own take on what I felt was an extremely anticlimactic episode (not that I'm complaining about a lack of main character death, mind!). Also, this is by no means and in no way an attempt at Castiel bashing; I have nothing against his character, simply needed him to provide the conflict for the sake of this particular scenario. I think he needs a hug just as much as the brothers do after that episode. :(

* * *

**Private Author's Note:**

_I rarely put author's notes into stories, and even more rarely long ones, but wanted to put in one quick word. Those of you who are religious among my readers, please say a prayer today for a young couple who are good friends of mine. They just this morning lost their three-year-old little boy to his second battle with leukemia. He went into the hospital a couple months ago for treatment, with none of us thinking anything about it really, as he'd fought it the first time and won easily - but unfortunately he did not respond to the treatment._

_He went on to a better place this morning, leaving a huge hole in the lives of many people. This is extremely difficult for everyone, as you can imagine, with a child so young and just before the holidays. My friends also have a little two-year-old son, who doesn't quite understand where his big brother is and why he isn't coming home; they now have to explain this and also try to have a Christmas for him without their other child._

_For the last two weeks on LiveJournal I have been privately running a small GoFundMe campaign for them to help with expenses and a Christmas for the younger child; they were struggling financially before this and are even more so now. They are extremely private people and do not want anyone to have real names or pictures, but if you are so inclined to help a grieving family and can trust me enough to do so please feel free to include them in your holiday giving. Since this site won't allow links you can find the link at gofundme dot com slash kcscribbler, or go to my profile and click my homepage link; that will take you to my LiveJournal and you can find this corresponding entry there with direct links._

_Regardless: thoughts, prayers, and good vibes are all appreciated during this time of grieving. I have a very sweet readership that has been more than kind through the years and I very rarely come with requests of this nature; I hope you'll forgive me for interrupting with this one. I was already in the process of posting this fic with the intent of signal boosting the gofundme page on LJ when I received the news an hour ago._

_Thank you, and I hope all of you have a wonderful, safe, and blessed holiday season with your families!_

* * *

Sam hangs up the phone and shoves it back into his pocket. "Two hours will give us enough time to get out of the area, then some old contacts of Bobby's will torch the place," he sighs, shoulders slumped with weariness. He is not looking forward to making the eight-hour drive back to Kansas tonight on top of everything; but there's no way he's chancing a hotel room alone with he's-not-quite-sure-what in the front seat.

Castiel glances back at the house, lit eerily in the moonlight. "You need to go," he says quietly.

"Uh, yeah."

"Sam, please make sure that Claire…that she is well cared for until I can follow you both." The angel glances at the porch steps, where a blond head pokes from the top of his trench coat, either huddled asleep against a column or pretending to be so.

Sam pauses beside the Impala's passenger door in the act of fishing out the keys. "Wait, what?"

Blue eyes stop him cold, a chill slithering down his spine. He hasn't seen _that_ frightening look in almost six years – it's like Cas has flipped a switch back to original fresh-out-of-heaven model, Castiel 1.0. No humanity, no emotion, all "Sam, of course, is an abomination" 100% I-am-an-angel-of-the-Lord.

Cas's brows furrow in genuine perplexity. "I highly doubt you want to witness these proceedings, Sam."

Sam has an IQ of 142.

He's never been more grateful for it.

When he turns around, it's not the Impala's keys in his hand; it's a small Luger.

The angel rolls his eyes tolerantly, a patronizing smile relaxing his features. The fact that a weapon is now pointed directly at his midsection at point-blank range by a Winchester does not give him pause any more than if any other mortal were behind the trigger; and that is his first mistake.

"Sam…"

"Crowley isn't the only one to think of melting down an angel blade, Cas," Sam responds, hands perfectly steady despite the heartbeat pounding frantically in his ears. "You lay a finger on him, and so help me _God_ I will put a bullet in your gut."

Cas's eyes widen, as the utter sincerity in Sam's voice rings clear as a bell. A funeral bell.

"It may not kill you, but it'll hurt like hell. And it'll give us a chance to get clear while you get medical attention." He's glad sheer determination is strong enough to keep him steady, because panic is threatening to overwhelm him more by the minute. This could so easily spiral out of control, as if this whole night could become much more so. They have so few alliances left in this never-ending war; and if it comes down to it, can he really afford to destroy one of those few they have left? Can he really pull the trigger against one of the even fewer beings in the world he can really call a friend?

If it comes down to choosing between Dean and someone – anyone – else? By now, the entire world and the worlds beyond know already what his choice will be.

_Don't make me do this, Cas._

The angel's eyes move toward the weapon, small enough to be easily concealed in the hunter's oversized jacket without detection. "You have been prepared for this," Cas observes.

Sam's hand shakes for just a fraction of an instant. "I know my brother," he answers simply.

"You know your _brother_. What Dean Winchester has twice become due to the Mark of Cain is not your brother, Sam."

"Oh for god's sake, Cas – look at him!" Sam steps slightly to one side and points through the windshield, where the topic of their conversation sits, silent and still, in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean remains in the same position as when he collapsed there after being pushed into the seat by Sam a half hour ago, huddled in on himself, and clutching a blood-stained towel with which he'd scrubbed his face. His eyes stare into the distance with a look of blank, hopeless devastation that breaks Sam's heart more effectively than any words ever could.

"Does he look evil to you? That's not what somebody looks like when they've gone all dark side on us! I mean, Cas – he puked all over the front yard when he came out the door. My brother with the iron stomach, the guy who brags about eating fifteen corn dogs at a carnival contest last summer. Does that sound like someone 'enslaved to uncontrolled bloodlust' to you?"

Castiel's eyes flash blue fire, as he takes a step closer. "You yourself did not appear to be the deadly threat to humanity which you were when addicted to demon blood, Sam – and yet, here we stand, years after the apocalypse which you and you alone unleashed by breaking the final seal and releasing Lucifer himself upon the world, whereupon millions perished because of your actions!"

Sam flinches, but the gun never wavers, its aim true as he stands between his brother and an avenging angel.

"I spent a century and a half paying for that mistake in the Cage, Cas," he says quietly. "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life in a hell of my own making on earth, because I failed my brother _again_."

Castiel finally raises his hands in an all-too-human gesture of exasperation and wheels about, striding toward the porch and the remnants of his human life.

"You and your brother, have always been blinded to the truth by your love for one another, Sam Winchester," he snaps over his shoulder, as he leans down toward Claire Novak. "And one day, the world will burn because of it."

Sam slams the driver's side door of the Impala and peels out of the driveway before the angel can make another move. "Let it burn," he mutters, shoving the Luger back into his inside jacket pocket, trying to still the shaking of his hands.

Dean's eyes flicker silently to him and then just as silently back into nothingness.

* * *

Three silent hours later, he has to stop and refill the Impala's gas tank.

Dean doesn't appear to even think about moving, but Sam keeps one eye on the car anyway as he grabs a few things and puts a fifty on pump number ten, then hurries back to the car. He doesn't think Cas is stupid enough or really eager enough to carry out Dean's wishes to pursue them, not when he knows exactly how to find them at any given time, but that doesn't keep him from seeing the outline of a trench coat in every shadow and hearing the flutter of non-existent angel wings in every bird landing nearby.

Finally he slides back into the car with a mostly steady exhale. Pulls the Impala into a parking space across the parking lot under a light, and then goes to the trunk, returning with their first aid kit. As there's no interior lights in their classic car, he decides on opening the passenger door and crouching in the opening, using the light there for triage and turning his brother toward it.

Dean blinks slowly at the hand on his arm, finally looks up at him as if waking up for the first time in two hundred miles. It's then that Sam really gets a good look at him in the light, at the pallor underneath the wiped-away bloodstains, and the unsteady pupils that react slowly when he shines a flashlight toward them.

_Damn it_. He should have known there was more to it than just Dean going off on a pervert and some lowlifes.

What looks like a jagged gash on his brother's head has clotted, and other than the brand burning fever-hot on his arm, Dean's skin is cold as ice – shock, his mind supplies with budding panic. He hastily retrieves the emergency blankets from the back seat and wraps both of them around Dean's shoulders as he pulls him forward a little into the light.

Is that _glass_?

"You wanna tell me what really happened now?" he murmurs as he examines the cut, carefully nudging hair out of the way with tweezers.

"'S it look like," Dean mumbles wearily, eyes closed.

"Didn't ask what it looked like." A smooth twitch of the hand, and the glass shard still in his brother's scalp comes away cleanly. A small trickle of blood follows, which he catches with a pad of gauze. "And considering I threatened to put a bullet in your guardian angel tonight if he tried to smite you, I think I deserve an explanation."

Dean sucks in a breath, whistling painfully between his teeth, as disinfectant hits the open cut, but his eyes fly open at Sam's statement. "You did _what_."

Sam finishes the disinfectant and begins to gently apply a bandage to the gash. "So I'm guessing beer bottle? How'd that even happen?"

Icy fingers grab his wrist in a vise, pull it away from his head. "Sam, what the _hell_ did you say to Cas."

Sam reaches into his inside pocket with his free hand and partially removes the small handgun hidden there, showing the butt before replacing the weapon. "Mainly this," he answers dryly. "I pointed out that I know you well enough to know, you probably asked him to take you out if you thought you were turning into what you were before. Then I told him I'd shoot his ass full of angel bullets if he tried it tonight."

Green eyes blink at him in shock for several seconds.

"Can I have my hand back now?"

Dean's fingers fall away, still trembling slightly, and Sam's brows furrow. He tugs the blankets more securely around his brother's shoulders, and then his face darkens even further. Reaching up, he tilts Dean's jaw to one side. "Seriously? Did they kick you too or something?" A spreading bruise is starting to darken the left side of Dean's jawline. "Was this before or after you painted the walls with them?"

Dean flinches, but doesn't look away. "Before," he says quietly.

"And getting smashed over the head with a bottle?"

"Before."

Sam exhales a breath he hadn't realized he's been holding, and sits back on his heels, grasping Dean's wrist tightly to reassure them both. "Good," he whispers. "Good, Dean."

At the least, Dean's control had been impaired by not one but two blows to the head; it hadn't been a matter of Dean calmly telling Sam to leave the house and then just whaling on them for the hell of it; obviously he'd been attacked first and had then reacted at least initially in self-defense before the Mark had taken over.

A derisive snort is his only answer. Dean's head droops in a gesture of hopelessness that Sam has rarely seen before, and it breaks his heart a little more – and yet, lights just a spark of hope, a tiny one deep inside that maybe not all is lost just yet. These aren't the actions of a man who is relishing the return of bloodlust that accompanies surrender of control to the Mark of Cain.

These are the actions of a man who well remembers those feelings, those desires, and wants them desperately but at the same time doesn't want to travel that road and see the consequences – the actions of an addict who knows he's about to relapse, but can't help himself.

God knows, Sam has unfortunately been there, and done that.

He slumps to rest his forehead on Dean's knees, a miserable sigh escaping into the night air.

_We are so screwed._

He didn't think anything could make this more painful, but when he feels a hesitant hand on his head, hears the aching, whispered, "I'm sorry, Sammy," it's the final catalyst – the match to light the fire within. A flame that's not going to be extinguished until he finds a way to remove the Mark from Dean's arm or else discover a way to bend it to his brother's will rather than the other way around.

If that means standing between his self-sacrificial brother and the well-intentioned forces of Heaven intent on taking out a threat supposedly addicted to a power beyond his control, well. Sounds pretty familiar, doesn't it. And this is a role reversal Sam doesn't intend to screw up this time around by letting anyone drive them apart rather than toward each other later in the game. This is one battle Sam has already lived the other side of, and one war he knows how to lose – and therefore, in reverse, how to win. Just…how does he start? How does he start fixing this mess?

Right now?

Right now, he can fix the small things.

Dena looks up as he stands. His brother's eyes are haunted, dark in a still too-pale face; but even here, in the shadows, Sam does not see even a hint of black amid the green. No, all is not yet lost; and where there is hope there is more than a fighting chance in their business.

Sam gently helps guide his brother's legs back into the car, tugs the blankets back around Dean's shoulders. The best thing now is to reach the Bunker as quickly as possible. Whether Dean goes to the dungeons or his bedroom when they get there will be up to him; Sam will have to immediately begin warding the place against angelic visitors for the time being.

He slides into the driver's seat and starts the engine, glances over at his passenger. Dean still stares blankly out the front windshield, huddled in the blanket like a silent, wounded animal.

"Hey."

Dean's head turns slightly his direction. His eyes flicker from the bushes in front of them to Sam's outstretched hand.

Sam shakes the packet of peanut M&amp;Ms impatiently. "Dude, I paid a freakin' dollar-ninety-eight for these things, you better eat them."

His brother blinks rapidly, then a hand slowly emerges from the blanket to take the candy. "Thanks," Dean says, eyes glinting in the moonlight.

Sam nods, casting a careful look around as he backs out of the truck stop's parking lot. He does not see any signs of angelic spies, though he knows Castiel probably is well aware of their location by now; he's done nothing to hide their route as it would be useless. Cas knows exactly where the Bunker is, and all the routes to it; and while he is still wingless, Sam is not foolish enough to go up against his other angelic abilities and think he will come off best.

He is, however, gambling on the fact that Cas is in no hurry to kill his brother, that he will want to see Claire Novak to safety and comfort first, and that Cas is smart enough to take Sam's threat seriously. Sam doubts they will have an angelic encounter tonight, and so he merely remains aware as he drives.

"So," he begins, as he pulls onto the road again, "tonight. I kind of overreacted, Dean."

The crunching of peanuts from the seat beside him stops for a few seconds.

Thus encouraged, he continues, free to speak under cover of darkness within the car and countryside. "I just sort of, freaked out, y'know. I am glad to know you didn't just go to town on them for the hell of it."

Dean clears his throat. "You don't know that, Sammy."

"Give me some credit, Dean. You obviously got hit with a bottle and then kicked in the face before you started on them. If I know you, you probably even warned them before they started on you. Four to one odds, you initially started in self-defense before it got out of control, am I right?"

There's silence in the car for a few seconds, and Sam holds his breath, suddenly terribly afraid that he's wrong, that his deductions were incorrect – that Dean really did just let go and –

"Yeah," is the hoarse reply at last.

Sam exhales in relief. "Good."

"Surprised you didn't just assume the worst though," Dean mutters, barely audibly, before chomping loudly on an M&amp;M.

Sam frowns in the darkness, but lets that one slide. "Not like you've been all 100% up front and honest with this thing, Dean. If we're going to deal with this going forward, that's got to change."

"There _is_ no _dealing_ with it, Sam! It demands bloodshed, when I kill I get a high. Once I've used the Blade, then if I don't kill _with_ the blade, then I get sick, _really_ sick, and eventually die!"

Sam blinks, wrinkles his forehead in thought. "The withdrawal symptoms I get, yeah, but dying? Who told you that?"

"Crowley," is the muttered response. "Right before he sprung me after you and Cas locked me up that first time, I was coughing up blood – he said too long without killing eventually kills the bearer."

"That can't be true, if Cain is still alive and the Blade was lost for centuries," Sam points out dryly.

"'S what I said. Crowley said Cain is a demon; a demon can handle that kind of power but a human's body can't."

Sam purses his lips and digests this news. "That's a problem."

"You're tellin' me."

"I still wouldn't trust his word alone that you'll _die_ without killing, though, given how much he's manipulated you about everything else, Dean. Plus, you know we've been told we're special vessels for power – archangel vessels, who's to say we can't handle the extra juice without dying? Plus anyway, demon or not, if Cain could live for centuries in peace so can you, Dean. There _is_ a way. There _is_."

Dean crunches his candy in silence.

"And I'm going to help you find that way, Dean. If in the meantime I have to go out and find vampires twice a week, cage 'em up and bring them back to the Bunker so you have something for target practice to satisfy the Mark, then I'll do it – but we will _figure it out_, Dean. I _promise_."

"We may be out of time, Sammy," is the quiet admission. "I gave Cas a job to do. And you stay out of the way if he has to do it, you hear me?"

"It isn't going to come to that, do _you_ hear _me_? We'll – we'll figure something out, all right?" His voice shakes just a little but he plows on, hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel to ground him. "Dean, I'll put you on a damn leash every hunt if I have to but I am _not_ going to let you die this time!"

Embarrassed at his outburst, Sam feels his ears burn as the silence stretches on and on.

Then an M&amp;M hits him in the side of the head.

"You go vamp hunting by yourself and I'm likely to get mad enough to kill _you_, you moron."

Safely hidden in the darkness, Sam smiles, and presses down on the accelerator towards home.

* * *

Also safely hidden in the darkness, Castiel stays his hand of judgment.

Back at the house, after putting Claire Novak into a deeper sleep until Robert Singer's friends would arrive, he then paused Time for a few seconds and slipped into the Impala's backseat just before Sam fled, invisible and undetected to both men.

His original intent, to eliminate the threat both he and Dean believed the latter to be, with as little difficulty and as little pain as possible. When they stopped the first time, he would put them both to sleep, remove Dean from the scene, and then examine him to find how far the Mark had permeated his soul. Sam would wake to an empty vehicle and be furious but helpless to change the events. However, as the drive progressed, and he read the thoughts emanating from both men, from Dean especially…

Castiel stays his hand, and turns his role to protector, not avenger.

At the time of his discussion with Dean, he had not wanted to agree to the man's request when not completely convinced of his guilt; at the very beginning, he had rebuilt Dean's soul from nothing in the depths of Hell, and he has yet to see evidence that it has become twisted beyond repair from this Mark. Damaged, yes; but beyond forgiveness? No. Never.

And besides, all of Heaven has learned the hard way in years gone by never to stand between a Winchester and his brother.

Castiel has been called several things today, but a suicidal idiot is not one of them.


End file.
